“2016 Screams” is the dissection of my own written effusion of the turmoil engrossed in my thoughts that year. From time to time I will probably most more of my 2016 screaming, but for now here is one entry from September 16th, 2016.
“I’VE BEEN LOCKED IN HERE FOR FAR TOO LONG.”
The year 2016 was one of the most crucial catalysts for me to face my repressed memories and emotions. My diary from 2016 is one of the most disruptively sorrowful journals, filled with entries dedicated to fear. Entries of starring the luculent internal screams and pleads of the stranger inside of me. Even writing it I felt so far away from the world I was dying to communicate with.
I have gone back to this diary/journal many times, almost just to understand the horrific content, just to understand the horrific feelings that faster just behind my tongue. Analyzing this monologue has brought to me to a haunting crossroads; one too sad and loud to run away from anymore.
It is repeated throughout the journal that I don’t feel like I am me, and I can’t understand why I can’t reach self-esteem…at all. I felt trapped inside a foreign body, and my body felt controlled by a foreign mind. And my mouth, locked tightly with the words of a voiceless person at a loss.
Much of the harrowing pain I endured that year was due to losing two of the most important and loved people I ever had in my life. But I was trapped mentally by an anti-psychotic medication that subdued my outside personality and ate my sagacious expression completely.
“September 19th, 2016
“I don’t know the date anymore. I’ve been locked inside for far too long. I should be writing new resumes and doing Kara’s homework.
I still feel so uncomfortable. Yesterday, Matt and I cried for at least an hour about it. I feel terrible. He can handle the manic and hypo-manic episodes-but not the depressive. I completely understand. I wish I could take the worry and stress off him, as if it were a shitty sweater.
I kinda like Kara. I feel like there is an underlying competition over who was ‘more’ of Gabby’s friend (that’s no contest…can you beat fifteen years)?”
“THE ROSE QUARTZ…CRUMBLED IN MY HANDS.”
The above picture FAR MORE SAD, at least to me, than most things I have ever written. The reason it feels in, some ways ‘more tragic’ than older and more sorrowful entries is because; the horrible guilt and sadness shared in this entry, I feel that intensity, that paranoia same as she…same as that girl preyed upon. That little magical girl dead inside me is that sadness. Within the vatic strains of these entries, lays the art of imperturbable analysis-fixation, lined with the overbearing need to die panegyric and raw…representing the beauty I found in living, while I lived in a world of ineffable torture and molestation.
“Still my enemy (arrow pointing at refrigerator picture taped in the diary).
I can’t function with this weight and no money on my mind. I’m paralyzed by depression and anxiety. I just want to make weird collage art and journal – these are not the things I should be doing.
Tomorrow, I’m gonna take three Adderall and hide my phone. I’m getting so distracted…cleaning too much…silent.
Next entry I will write about the intensity of my Sunday.
P.S. I had a dream that the rose quarts I just bought crumbled in my hands.”